


296 - Fast Love & Fake Blood

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 16:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: You're an EMT-in-training and on an educational ridealong, meet a very bloody Van McCann.





	296 - Fast Love & Fake Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the winner of a competition I ran on my blog way back when. I've edited it slightly to make it more general, and more 'insert reader' vibed.

The body lying on the table was spewing blood on the floor and the group of people surrounding it were trying not to squeal in disgust. You were fine though; it wasn't real blood and it wasn't a real body. The dummy was designed to teach budding EMTs how to react in specific situations. The tutor with the controls was revelling in the power. Alma was grinning manically as students fought to be the one with the saving suggestion. Your eyes met hers briefly. She knew you knew how to save the dummy, but she knew you'd not speak up in this instance. Better to let your exam results do the talking. 

When the tutorial hour was up, the room began to empty. 

"Y/N? A word?" Alma called. You slung your backpack over your shoulder and hiked up your jeans, nodding in her direction. As you stood in front of her, she shuffled a couple of papers in her hands, pulling manila folders from her bag. "Ah… hold on," she mumbled. Finally, she handed you a printed copy of the draft you'd sent her the Friday prior. It was written up in bright red ink that resembled the fake blood all over the dummy's table. "You're smart," she said. There was a pause. Were you meant to respond to that? "You're smart and you're… stubborn. You don't participate in the group pracs," 

"I can do the pracs," you responded immediately. 

"Oh, I know. I don't doubt that," 

"I can show you now-" you continued, even stepping closer to the dummy. 

"Y/N, it's not that I'm not seeing you do the prac, because I know you can. Like I said, you're smart. You could be a brain surgeon if that's what you wanted. I just think you need practice interacting with people more," she said. You'd had plenty of practice interacting with people. Just the night before you'd held a three hour conversation with a stranger on the internet about what it would be like if Julian Casablancas was in the original Nightmare on Elm Street. And after that, you'd called Ashlyn and talked her through outfit choices for her weekend thing. How much more social could you get? 

"I'll try to-" you started again. 

"Oh, honey! No. Sorry. I'm not criticising you. I'm actually giving you an opportunity, if you want it. If you're not busy this weekend, our education coordinator at the uni hospital has a free seat in the ambulance. If you can watch, listen, take direction, and probably stay out of the way more than anything else, then it's yours. Really valuable opportunity." 

With contact card in hand and a smile on your face, you left the EMT prac room happy. 

… 

You'd been 'on shift' for three hours and in those 180 minutes not a lot had happened. 

"You're a good luck charm, you are," Steve said. Steve was an EMT that had been in the job for longer than you'd been alive. You knew that because he had told you a couple of hundred times. He had that 'old white man that could moonlight as the real Santa Clause' vibe. He made a good EMT. "Getting' paid to drive about, listen to… the cool tunes," 

"God, Steve. 'The cool tunes'… really? We know you're old, but… jeez… how out of touch are ya?" Suzie, Steve's partner who always took the wheel, asked. "What about you, Y/N? What music you into?" 

"The Strokes," you said almost immediately. You were about to launch into some song recommendations and hook up the Aux when a voice came over the radio. 

A bar across town. Cheap beer. Rock bands. Young blood. 

As the ambulance sped through the city, the sound of the siren disallowed conversation. The flashing lights were illuminating the inside of the cabin where you sat. It was surreal, and the anticipation of the emergency to come made you feel a bit dizzy. 

The vehicle stopped and Steve was already opening the back doors by the time you were up. You'd picked up one of the medical packs and as you handed him the other, he remarked, "Going for teacher's pet, kid?" Suzie laughed and followed behind him, motioning for you to come. 

Outside of the bar, two police cars had mounted the curb. They were trying to control the small crowd of punky indie kids. One came to meet the EMTs. 

"Guys. He's over there. Got a bottle to the 'ead. Says he's fine, but better be safe, yeah?" he said, then with a quick nod, he was off, holding the line of people claiming to be the patient's friend. 

A guy with fuzzy hair was standing still in the sea of movement. He was talking to the cops. "But I'm his mate. I'm the drummer in his band!" he said to the cop, who looked completely unconvinced. The guy pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. The lens in the left side was cracked. Even under the dim street lights, you could see he was beautiful, but in the way that Ashlyn was into more than you. 

Your attention refocused on the patient. He was about your age and had on black skinny jeans, boots with scratches at the toes, and a band t-shirt. The Strokes. You sucked in your bottom lip, concealing any reaction. The sleeve of the shirt was torn. Yeah, he'd been in the fight alright. 

"How's it going, mate?" Steve asked him, approaching and getting out equipment. 

The guy lifted his head. Half his face was covered in thick blood and your first instinct was to find a warm, wet cloth. Standing still, you watched attentively as Steve and Suzie spoke to the guy. They checked his blue, blue eyes; his pupils dilated as they should and he could track movement fine. His vital signs were clear and the cut to his head looked worse than it was. As Steve cleaned it out, the guy winced, looking down. When he looked back up, his eyes settled on you. He seemed to notice you for the first time. 

"Hi," he said to you. He'd been quiet up until that point, only speaking when spoken to. 'Van. 21. Yes. No. Yeah. Me mate Larry's over there. Nah.'

"Hi," you replied. 

Suzie snorted then looked over at you. "Come 'ere then, Y/N. May as well give us a hand," she said. You stood in the spot she pointed to - close to Van, right next to his injury. "You know how to patch?" she asked. Despite terminology differences, you knew what she meant. When you nodded, she put the materials in your hand. 

"You a doctor?" Van asked, looking up. 

"I'm training to be an EMT," you replied. "Could you try to keep your head still? Just look in one place for me," you added. It surprised you when your voice came out laced with firm kindness and undeniable authority. 

"Anything for you, love," Van said. Suzie snorted again. She stayed close to observe your work. 

"Suze, I'll go get details and see if there's others," Steve said, giving a captain's salute to Suzie then walking over to the police. 

"So yous don't think I got a concussion or nothing?" Van asked. 

"No concussion. You got lucky, kid," Suzie replied to him. 

"Not lucky. Just quick, see. Mostly ducked out the way. Just not all the way." Van laughed, a giggle, really. You and Suzie both rolled your eyes simultaneously. 

Stupid, stupid boy. 

You wanted to ask how it had happened. What had Van said that caused someone to try to kill him with a fucking beer bottle? Was he the victim in the situation or the villain? 

"Well, you'll have a bump in the morning but it won't even scar. Like I said, really doubt there's a concussion, but you should probably come with us for observation anyway," Suzie said. Any head injury warranted observation. Head injuries may be brain injuries. 

"Nah! No need for that. I'll be fresh as a daisy in a minute. Just need a cup of water. Can I see Larry now?" Van said, standing up as you stood back. "Thanks, love," he added, looking down at you with a kinda-terrifying grin on his face. It was all that blood that did it. 

"Don't be callin' a professional 'love' and don't you be going against best medical advice, honey," Suzie said, gently pushing him back down onto the milk crate he was sitting on. "We'll get your mate and some water though. Maybe he can talk some sense into you." 

You were tasked with finding Larry, so logically you started with the guy you saw earlier. Surprisingly, Larry was not with the boy with the broken glasses. He was the guy next to him, short and long haired. It was pushed away from his face with a bandana. You had expected Van's friends to be laughing, amused at the chaos of the situation. But, no. Larry wore a worried look on his face and as soon as you approached, he introduced himself. 

"You from the hospital? Is Van okay? Guy at the bar said not to call the ambulance, but there was so much blood. Didn't really know what to do and we don't have our cars here. Is he okay?" 

"Yeah. He's fine. Obviously, there is a cut, but it's not deep," you replied, annoyed that you'd used the word 'obviously' so flippantly. "Because he has sustained a knock to the head, it is better if he comes with us for observation at the hospital. It would be great if you could maybe suggest the same to him?" 

"Yeah, yeah. For sure, love. I got him water too. Can he have water?" Larry asked as he nodded to Glasses and followed you past the police. 

The cops had managed to settle things down. Most of the people had gone back inside the bar. Some onlookers lingered, addicted to the drama. The rest were the people involved and they had been separated from each other. 

Larry made Van stand for a hug; their height differences made it cuter than it already would have been. Van slammed the water handed to him, then grinned at Larry. 

Steve returned. 

"All aboard then!" he announced, picking up the bags and flicking his head to the ambulance. 

"Not for us, thanks, mate," Van said. "Think I just need a hot shower and a cup of tea," 

"Again - our professional medical advice is that you come for observations. You've sustained a head injury," Suzie reiterated. 

"Had much worse. Trust us," Van replied. 

"Mate, think maybe you should listen to 'em, you know what I mean?" Larry said, glancing at you then back at his friend. 

Van shrugged, smiled and stuck his hand out to Suzie. She just looked back at him. He tried Steve. Steve was a traditional kind of guy. He shook Van's hand and sighed. "The arrogance of youth, hey, mate?" he said. Another bloodied smile from Van. He turned to you then. There was no protocol learnt to guide your actions. There was no time to look over at Suzie, who was badass and smart and cool and who, you imagined, had an equally badass wife at home that was in maybe architecture or something. Girl Power Couple. There was no time and no point at looking at Steve. He wasn't what you wanted to be when you grew up. 

"Please?" you said. It came out of you without much thought, just the most natural thing to do or say. 

"Oh, love," Van said loudly and dramatically. He put both hands on your shoulders. Suzie took a warning step and Van removed his person from yours. He sniggered a little and held his hands up in a white flag motion. "I'd love to come with you. Trust me. Got them stormy eyes. Magic, you know? But I'm really okay, love. I promise. So…" and Van took a step backwards, much to the secret anxiety of both Suzie and Larry. "Hope yous have a good night. Nobody puking on ya or nothing like that. Thanks a bunch for ya good work. Good doctors." 

He turned to Larry and put his arm around his shoulder, then walked off in the opposite direction of the bar. You strongly suspected he was meant to stay and give a statement or something… but he also seemed like the type of troublemaker to easily dodge things like responsibility. 

"Don't worry, girls. It's on him now. He's a strong, young lad. He'll be right!" Steve said in an attempt to be reassuring but mostly just ticking the box of 'casual sexism.'

…

"So he was flirting?" Ashlyn asked. She was fully focused on the story you were telling, engaged as you relayed the Saturday night that was to her in graphic detail. 

"Before you even ask - he was covered in blood. I don't really know what he looks like. Besides, it's… he was a patient, you know? Duty of care. Code of ethics. All of that," you replied with a roll of the eyes. 

"Yeah, but, did he sound cute?" 

"His friends were nice," you said, deflecting. "There was one with glasses and curly hair. Totally your type," 

"Do you have patient records or anything so we can hunt them down? We haven't met anyone cool in a while…" Ashlyn said. She wasn't joking. 

"Oh, yeah! Totally! I'll just pop over to the uni hospital and check in with reception. I'll just be like 'oh, hey, could you just look up the details of this guy we helped the other night because he might be cute but at least one of his friends is cute and my friend wants to meet him' and she'll be like 'yeah, cool, here's his contact details' and we'll go on a double date,"

"Jesus, Y/N. I know you're sarcastic but do you have to be… like… that sarcastic, you know?" 

You laughed and rolled over on the bed. Lazy Sunday afternoons with your best friend, listening to music, daydreaming about what life would be like when you were old ("I'm not on the fritz about it, but one girl would be nice…"), and writing lists of movies to watch one day was what it was all about. Also, food. Food was what it was all about too. 

"Hungry? Want to go get a burger or something?" you asked Ashlyn. 

"Thought you'd never ask. Burger though? Thought you were going veggie?" 

"I am. Most days. Sundays are my day off," you replied, not making eye contact. You were off the bed, pulling on your leather jacket and looking for your bag. Ashlyn's silence was telling. "Gimme a break. I'm studying medicine, Ash! I'm a good fucking person!" Then, after another few beats of silence, "Fine. Tofu burger." 

… 

One week and three days later, you were back in class pushing coloured pens and highlighters into your pencil case. Always last out. 

"Heard you did well on Saturday," Alma said casually, a knowing smile on her face. Apparently her and Suzie went way back. 

"Ah, yeah, it was good. Intense," you replied, nodding and trying to think of something you'd learnt from Steve and Suzie that sounded impressive. 

"Hardest part?" 

"Staying awake?"

Alma laughed. "Yeah. Sleep deprivation gets the best of us. Glad it was good. I'll keep my ear to the ground for any more opportunities." There was a fondness in her voice that seemed to be growing each week. She liked you and it was a good relationship to foster. Alma was a respected name in medicine, in emergency medicine and first point of delivery. Black excellence. You'd always dreamed of having a chic as fuck, boss-ass woman mentor.

"Thank you, really," 

"You're welcome, Y/N. I'll catch you next tute." 

Smiling politely and packing up the rest of your stuff, you exited the room a few minutes after Alma. 

"What is up, little ambulance girl?!" a voice called from the other end of the hallway. 

Spinning on your heels to face him, you didn't recognise his face but you recognised his voice. He'd been half-covered in blood and drenched in moonlight last time you'd seen him. His brown hair was freshly washed and it flopped and curled around his face. The cut on his head was hidden and like he said he would be, he looked fresh as a motherfucking daisy. 

"Hi… Van," you replied as he strutted towards you. 

"Ah! You remember me," 

"Yeah… not sure how. Wasn't a real memorable meeting," you said with a sarcastic shrug. 

Van smirked. Fun, fun, fun. "You remember me, I remember you. I'm Van, you're…" 

"Gonna be late to my next class." 

Van laughed. "If you want me to go, love, I will. Just say the word." You looked at him properly for the first time. Van was pale, not like normal White boy pale, but proper pale. He even had the orange freckle galaxy thing going on. Despite the fluffy boyishness of his hair, the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones made him read as 'babe' more than 'adorable.' Although, somehow he was that too. Maybe it was the funny bunny teeth juxtaposed with the baby fangs. They were kinda beautiful. He was definitely beautiful.

"Y/N."

Victory. 

"Y/N. It's very love-leh to meet you, Y/N," Van said, holding his hand out. Offering him yours, he kissed the back and lingered. 

"You smell like cigarettes," 

"You smell like cleaning stuff," he countered. 

"It's the fake blood and cleaning product from my class," 

"Makes sense. I smoke," 

"Figured. Bad habit, you know. It will kill you one day," you told him, like he hadn't been told a thousand times before. 

It was different when you said it though. He didn't know why. "Got any doctor advice to help me quit?" 

"I'm not a doctor yet," 

"One day," he said, an echo of your sentence. He grinned and you couldn't help but smile back. You really, really wanted to not. You wanted to be sassy and sarcastic and play it cool, but there was something about him that made your knees go all weak and your heart go all fast. Stupid, stupid boy. 

"What are you doing here?" you asked, trying to find something to dislike him for. Other than the tobacco smell, that is. 

"Lookin' for you," 

"Stalking. That's called stalking," you quipped. 

"Nah… Well… Yeah, nah, love. Stalkin' is when you follow someone, innit? I just asked around. Went a little bit Sherlock," Van said. You could tell by the expression on his face that he was proud of himself and his detective feat. Raising your eyebrows and leaning against the hallway wall, you looked at him. "I just looked up which unis or whatever do the EMT courses. Got lucky. One of me friends works in the student services part of this one," 

"That's… I don't know. Probably illegal?" 

"She didn't tell me your name or anything. Just said that maybe you'd be here now. And here you are!" 

"Here I am… slightly flattered, slightly creeped out," you replied casually. 

"That slightly flattered part. Does she slightly wanna maybe get a drink with me after?" Van asked. 

Van was in black skinny jeans; they were probably the same unwashed pair as the night you'd patched him up. The same boots were on his feet too. His shirt was changed though. The ripped up shirt was likely in the wash. More likely, the shirt was lying on the floor of his bedroom. As he leant against the wall mimicking your body language, he was in a black button up. Maybe it was his version of 'dressed up'. Smart casual. Impress the girl. 

"Is dinner included? Can't drink on an empty stomach," you said. 

Van was already a little in love with your sass. 

…

The lecture dragged on. It usually did, so that in and of itself was not out of the ordinary. The lecturer's voice was a dull drone. Monotonous. Uninspiring. Surely he knew it too. All teachers frequently Google their name, check their ratemyteacher.com, that kind of thing. Nevertheless, he persisted. It was unfortunate really, because the content of the lecture should have engaged easily. Infectious diseases. Yum. 

As arranged, as promised, Van was sitting on the steps of the building when you exited. For someone that didn't go to the uni, he sure did find his way around easily. 

"Babe," he greeted. You watched him put his cigarette out against the step, then flick it off down the sidewalk. When you stood, unmoving, unspeaking, he tilted his head in confusion. Then, "Oh!" Van ran the few steps to reclaim the butt. He looked around for a bin, then disposed of it properly. "Better?" 

"Marginally. You still smell like it," 

"I'll try harder. Promise. Ready?" 

You were a second away from stepping in the direction of the uni bar. Cheap drinks. Shitty pub meals. The best. Van was already walking off in the opposite direction, however. His strides were long, unlike yours. When he realised, he slowed down and chuckled. 

"What?"

"Nothing," he answered. "Gotta keep the Larry pace. That's all. So, tell me about yourself, Y/N," 

"Ah... Nothing much to tell. What do you want to know?" 

Van thought for a second. What were the things most important to him? "So you're studying to be a doctor?" he settled on. 

"Kind of. I'm studying to be an EMT right now. I want to be a doctor though," 

"So you're dead smart?" he asked with a smirk. 

"Yes," you replied. The 'obviously' was implied. "Very."

Van laughed, nodding. "What kind of music do you listen to?" 

"The Strokes. On repeat. Fall Out Boy-"

"Fall Out Boy?!" Van screeched. "Babe! No!"

"Get fucked, you pretentious hipster. Don't tell me you haven't shimmied to Dance, Dance in the club," you replied, glaring at him. 

"Nah. Nah. I'm way too cool for that. Have you seen this jacket?" His voice went up a couple octaves. 

"It is a nice jacket," you agreed. It really was. 

"Exactly." 

The rest of the walk to the bar was soundtracked by quick fire, back and forth banter. Van continued to ask his questions. You continued to answer. He was easy to talk to and apparently very easy to impress. It was a relatively new thing for you to be bold talking to people, a New Year's resolution or something, but it wasn't even like that with Van. It was just… natural, for lack of a better explanation. 

Van said that he liked that you adored Wonder Woman so much. He said that you reminded him of her, but there was a sneaking suspicion he was just complimenting you. Regardless, it worked. Your knowledge of true crime weirded him out, like it did most people. That was good though. It gave you an aura of otherworldliness. Van laughed when you told him daydreaming was one of your favourite hobbies. He explained then, that he was in a band and when he stood under the uneven flow of his shower head, he practiced talking to NME and Rolling Stone. You shared a zodiac sign, a love of The Strokes, and both got your leather jackets from the same place. Van said it was "meant to be." 

There was already an 'it.' 

You'd never been to the bar Van seemed to know like a second home. He greeted the bartender by name - Legs - and casually took a table off in the corner of the place. The bartender delivered a jug of tapped beer and two plastic pint cups. Van rapped his knuckles on the table. 

"And two of your best fine dining experiences," he said to Legs. 

"Chicken parms are up," he replied with a nod and went to move away. 

"Actually… I'm a vegetarian… now. Sort of. Yeah," you said. Both Van and Legs looked at you with expressions of confused amusement on their faces. "It's a new thing. Do you have-"

"Eggplant parm it is," Legs interrupted.

Van was a cheap drunk. Maybe it was that your first impression of him was based on a drunken bar fight (which he was mostly sober for, apparently), but you expected him to be able to drink you under the table. Two pints in he was grinning like an idiot and reaching across the table to thread his bony fingers through yours, saying, "I like your hands. Lifesaving hands, yeah! So pretty." Even the chicken parmigiana and chips did little to sober him. In sharp comparison, you were just nicely warm and tingly. 

"Aren't you gonna eat the salad?" you asked him, watching him happily. He had a million and one little quirks to notice. 

"What? This green rubbish? Nah, babe," he replied, pushing the cucumber and tomato around on his otherwise empty plate. 

"So, you smoke, you don't eat vegetables, you get into fights. Living a little recklessly, aren't ya?" 

"When you put it like that, but I'm really not as rock and roll as ya makin' it sound. Just ask me mum and dad. They'll tell you that I'm soft as butter." 

You didn't doubt that. There was a gentleness in him that ran deep. Of all the authentic things about him, of which there were many, it was arguably the most genuine trait. Van was a lover. He loved his friends, his family, his dog, his band, his chicken parmigianas, his everything. It made you want to be part of his everything, so, so badly. 

Van walked you to where your car was parked after too many hours at the bar and not enough beer to get drunk. With an early lecture the next day, you knew you'd be regretting the late night. Not in the moment, though. Not as Van walked with swaying hips next to you, his hand brushing against yours as frequently as he could make it without appearing too eager. He was though. You were too. The tension was electric and the hairs on your arms stood to attention. 

Under a flicking street light, you stood facing Van. Numbers had already been swapped. Promises of second… dates? hangs? had been made. There was nothing left to do but say your goodbyes and part ways. Hesitation was the mood of the night though. 

Just when you thought you'd have to be the first to say or do something, Van cleared his throat and stood up straight. You could still smell the tobacco on him, but it had taken a backseat to more familiar and kind scents. The bar. Van's shampoo; you could smell it every time he ran his hand through his hair, ruffling it up.

"I like you," he said, punctuating his sentence and sentiment with a lopsided smile. He wasn't being cocky or purposefully charming. 

"I guess you're alright too," you replied, unable to let go of the sarcasm just yet. 

"I'll take that." 

His smile didn't falter. Van opened his arms in an invitation to meet him halfway. 

…

"What?! Y/N!" Ashlyn was nearly screaming down the phone. You held it out at a safe distance for a second. Two. "Did you go?! How'd he find you!? Did you ask about his friend? The one with the glasses? This is amazing. Tell me everything. I'm dying," 

"If you'd shut up for a second I could, you know, talk," you said deadpan. 

"Are you in love with him?" 

"Ash. Lyn. Calm. Down," 

"Okay, okay. Go. I'm listening." 

And so you told her. You explained Van's not-so-random appearance at the university he certainly did not attend. You explained his annoying charm, his love of Casablancas, and his self-confessed… like of you. 

…

The message was just two words. "Busy Friday?" You looked at it for a long time. The bar with Van happened on a Wednesday night. The weekend had come and gone with no texts or calls. The 'I'm not bothered' routine you put on was so good that you almost fooled yourself. Then, Monday afternoon your phone buzzed with a message from him and you breathed properly for what felt like the first time in days. 

"Gross," you muttered to yourself. As if a boy could have such power. But, even Diana swooned before Steve Trevor. 

A second message loaded. A screenshot of an event on Facebook. His band was playing at the bar he'd taken you to. It hurt a little. It couldn't count as a date if he was inviting the entire city, inviting anyone that would come. You were only one more person in a crowd to make it appear as though his band was relevant. 

Ashlyn fundamentally disagreed with your theory. 

"It sounds like his band means a lot to him, yeah? Like his little baby or whatever?" she prompted. 

"So?"

"So, he is proud of it. Wants to show you. Like, 'look at me being the cool singer in a cool band, please like me.' You know?" 

"Even so, what's the point of going if I don't get to talk to him?" you argued. 

"We go because we like music. Because there might be cuties there for me. Because he will talk to you. Because we haven't been out in ages, Y/N. Come on. Please?!" 

The next thing you knew, you were picking out clothes on a Friday afternoon. 

"I'm glad I met him this time of year, in sweater weather. All my best outfits require chilly weather," you said, looking at yourself in the mirror. Black jeans. Black ruffled blouse printed with bright red flowers. 

"How you gonna put a jacket on over those pirate frills?" 

"First of all: rude. Second of all: I can make N-E-thing work. Anything. You should know that by now." 

Of course you did. Leather jacket. The gold necklace you put on sparkled and was made brighter and more alive by the richness of your skin. Ready. 

By the time you arrived at the bar, it was already after ten. Van's band was due to start at half past. Inside was far more packed than you had anticipated. As it turned out, Van was popular. His band was popular. While Ashlyn was ordering beers, you stood next to her facing the room. There were a lot of beautiful people out and about, a lot of painfully cool people too. In amongst all that, Van was still easy to find. He was sitting at a table with Larry (who apparently owned just the one bandana). As people walked by, they glanced at the pair, at the table of guys. God. He really was already a hometown fucking hero. 

"Is that them? Which one is he?" Ashlyn asked, handing you a pint of beer and easily following your gaze. 

"The pretty one," 

"God, Y/N," she replied, pronouncing your name like only a best friend could. "They're all pretty." 

Well - she wasn't wrong. 

Like he could sense your eyes on him, Van looked up directly at you. He smiled from ear to ear. It hurt your heart a little bit. 

"Oh," Ashlyn said quietly. "I get it now." 

Van was standing and walking over before you needed to figure out if you should go to him or wait for him to come to you. You deeply appreciated his knack of sorting out social situations. It wasn't like you were particularly inept at human interaction, but it was good to have the responsibility gone anyway. 

"You look fuckin' beautiful, babe!" Van greeted, wrapping you up in a hug. Your jacket had been removed and slung over your arm as soon as you entered the busy bar. All the bodies and turned up heaters combatted the cold weather more than necessary. "And you smell so good,"

"Hey, Van. Thanks. You smell less like smoke," you replied. Probably not the sweetest thing you could have said, but Van really did like your audaciousness. There was nothing half done or mediocre about you. 

"Yeah. 'Cause I'm wearing all clean clothes and I've only had a couple today. Promised ya, didn't I? Don't want you to have an asthma attack," he said. You couldn't remember telling him about the asthma, but in the midst of all the weeknight romance, maybe you did. How'd he even remember though? 

You and Van stepped out of the hug, and you shivered involuntarily. 

"Van, this is Ashlyn. Ash, Van," 

"Hey! Heard lots 'bout you. Pleasure to meet you," Van said to her, his trademark goofy grin on his face. 

"You too. Heard plenty about you too," she said to him, throwing you a side eye of pure menace. 

"Have ya now?! All good, I hope," 

"I only speak the truth, Van," you said, suddenly nervous as their interaction. 

Van brought you to his table, where you formally met his friends. Larry thanked you for your "work" on the night of the fight. The other guy at the table wasn't who you thought at first glance from the bar. Plenty of curly locks, but he didn't wear glasses and he didn't have the same softness as the boy from that night. This one was introduced as Benji. 

"So, if you're the roadie slash manager-" you said.

"Thank you," Larry whispered. Apparently his managerial role was debatable. 

"And you sing, and you play bass, where is your drummer?" 

"Ah, Sideshow's around. You might remember him actually, from the other night," Van said, looking around the room. "Ah. There. He's at the end of the bar talking to Legs."

You and Ashlyn turned to look in the direction Van was pointing. Ashlyn's intake of air was audible. She looked back at Van dramatically. The guys all laughed but before an introduction could be orchestrated, Larry was standing and herding them all to set up on stage. 

"Break a leg," you said as Van stood. He smiled, then in a movement that was swift and impulsive, leaned across the table and kissed your forehead, lips to hair and skin, before disappearing into the crowd. 

Ashlyn went to speak. 

"Nope," you said, stopping her. 

The bar was relatively large. It was divided into two sections: The bar and tables were closest to the entrance, then down a couple of steps was a 'dancefloor' that more often than not was pounded flat by dozens of moshing youths. Down on the floor level there was one small door that lead to a thin hallway. Off the hallway were the toilets, back exit through the beer garden, and a room of billiard tables. It was a fire hazard, for sure. Importantly, the lower level floor was home to a sturdy stage that gave rise to glorious, messy bands like Van's. 

Their set started and straight away it was clear why the band had a following. Van thrashed about on stage with the pride and reckless abandonment of a celebrated rock star. Nobody could tell him he was just a kid with a guitar band. He was destined for greatness, and watching him, you couldn't deny it. 

When the final song faded into applause, Van dropped his guitar and bowed, thanking the small crowd again and again. He was the last off stage. You watched silently and in awe as the boys bounced from person to person, fan to maybe-someone-important to friend and back again. After ten minutes, they returned to the table. 

"Ah, Bob, do us a favour and look after this one here. Ashlyn, this is Bob. He's the good one," Van said breathlessly, holding a hand out to you while he spoke. "Just gonna pop out for some air," he explained, pulling you through the bar out the front. There was no time to even tell the guys how good you thought they were. At least Ashlyn appeared enamoured with being left in Bob's care. Although, it was far more likely that they were all in her care. 

Outside, Van didn't stop. He walked at a brisk pace across the road and down a block. You followed along, attached at the hand, content with not knowing where he was going. He stopped suddenly at a random bench on the sidewalk, pulling a bottle of water from his back pocket. It was made of thin plastic and it had crumpled, holding only a quarter of the liquid it once did. Van sat and patted the seat next to him. Sitting down, you wondered how he managed to fit anything his pockets at all. His jeans were so damn tight. 

"Was it alright?" he asked, his lips wet with the water. 

"Yes, definitely. You're really, really fucking good. Seriously," you said, turning to him. Once you started, you couldn't stop. It was one part review, one part compliment, one part pure flirtatious rambling. Van listened, jittering nervously as he tried to fight the need for nicotine and want to marry you on the spot. Slowly, your words were more than enough of a drug and he forgot all about smokes. The streetlights above were reflected in your eyes and it looked like stars, like galaxies in your gaze. 

"I'm glad you came tonight," Van whispered when you fell silent. Usually, when someone gushed about his music, he'd be entirely humbled and sing his gratefulness to them over and over. There was nothing usual about him and you though. When he spoke, the softness of his voice surprised you both. 

"Me too," you replied. 

It happened simultaneously then. You and Van reached the same conclusion. A shared future flashed before your eyes and a life neither of you had thought of before became the absolute goal, the unequivocal dream. 

Van imagined that he'd stop smoking entirely, when he used to joke about being buried with a pack of old faithfuls in his pocket. He imagined dedicating his first, second, third, all his albums to you. There would be a million songs about you, but only one named Y/N. He'd sing it at the wedding. Before that, a dozen McCann babies. He wanted to see them run down the aisle, throwing confetti and laughing wildly. A compromise on the dozen though. 'We'll start with one…' A girl named Lila. Ruby. Maybe Aurora. Van would say three girls, to use all your favourite names. He liked Lila, but he'd use a Y. 'Oasis, babe,' he'd muse, dreaming of Gallaghers as better people than they were. Maybe Niamh. It would be easier than either of you thought. Between medicine and music, touring and toddlers, it would all work out. When people mentioned you both in passing conversation, they'd say you were such bold people. Both so complete individually, both with plans and attitudes and fire. Then you met. And it could never be described as finding your other halves. 'That's rubbish,' Van would object, because you were so much more than a man's other half. It would be love. Simple. Pure. Better than melodrama romances and punk rock relationships. Just love. 

"Y/N?" Van asked, licking his lips and running his hand through his hair. It was drying in bits, the salt of his stage-made sweat clumping strands together. Somehow, he made even that look good. 

"Yeah?"

"I, uh… I like your… forehead…" His sentence hooked up at the end like a question would. You tilted your head, a confused reaction to a confused-sounding sentence. Van grinned. "Ah, no, fuck, that isn't what I meant… I mean! It's true, I like your forehead. It's all spaced good and stuff. Don't even need a fringe if you didn't want one. Ah, but.." Before he became tongue-tied, he stopped himself, grinning again. "Nevermind. I was just- Um. I was just gonna say something, but it don't matter," 

"Kind of sounds like it does," you encouraged. 

Van looked at you. He really, really looked. It was difficult to not look away, not remove the hot, burning feeling of his eyes studying each detail of your face. It almost felt like pain, like all extreme pleasure does. 

"I… I'm pretty sure I love ya." 

You could hear the music coming from the bar down the street. Someone had picked a playlist, set the mood. Of course, of course. Call it Fate, Call it Karma was playing. You listened hard, waited for the right line. 'Can I waste all your time here on the sidewalk? Can I stand in your light just for a while?' It was apt, both in regards to the band and the lyric. Van heard it too. He smirked and made a strange little snorting sound. 

"That's apt," he said. 

"Just what I was thinking," you replied. 

"Are you thinking about… you know… anything else?" 

Van was right - it was probably not the best time to get emotional about The Strokes. Again. 

The streetlight flickered, drawing your attention upwards. Little moths were flying in circles around the glowing globe. It bought you a second before you had to face reality, face Van, face the fact that this was it. He was it. The daydream come true. 

"I… You're… I…" Deep breath in. Feel your lungs fill with oxygen. Calm breath out. Okay. "I think I love you too." Somehow. This soon. But truly. 

Nobody would have blamed Van for being nervous, for looking like he was waiting to hear the results of a very, very important medical examination. But, he wasn't and he didn't. He was sure and patient. And when you said those words back to him, when you spoke the magic phrase, it was over. You came apart as he felt whole for the first time.

Instinctively your eyes closed as Van's lips collided with yours. His arms snaked around your small frame and he pulled you in close to him. Without having to calculate the movement, you wrapped your arms around his neck, standing on tiptoes to kiss back. His mouth didn't taste of anything. No cigarettes. No mint gum. No beer or blood or anything at all. He was clean and he was yours. 

When you broke apart reluctantly, driven only by a biological need for air, you stayed close. With his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes still closed, Van smiled. You'd opened your eyes to watch him be happy, be loved. It was just that fucking simple. 

"Got a question for you," he said softly. You anticipated something profound at best, sweet at worst. "How come you never asked what the fight was about? 'Cause I was dead right about it, you know? And I would've won too, if it weren't for the bottle thing." 

Stupid, stupid boy.


End file.
